


Gremlins

by OmalleyMeetsTibbs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Negative Thought Patterns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24745672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmalleyMeetsTibbs/pseuds/OmalleyMeetsTibbs
Summary: It’s just one of those days when the thoughts in Sherlock’s head tear him down.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Gremlins

The first thought that enters Sherlock’s mind after a fairly peaceful sleep is _Does it really matter what I do if it’s all pointless anyway?_ The second is _Well, I guess it’s just going to be that kind of day._

The thoughts continue to swirl around his head. Thoughts of uselessness, worthlessness, and how the world would be the same with or without him, perhaps even better. The swirling dark mass seeps into every corner of his mind palace, consuming the bits of light that he had gained over the last few months. Particularly bright ones would fight back and keep the consuming black at bay. Lights like _But John cares_ or _I help people, bring small amounts of justice to the world_ would burn brightly until fading out as they are replaced with _But he would be better off without you, without the extra work of taking care of you, without the constant threat on his life, without the frustration you add_ or _It doesn’t matter if no one likes you or appreciates The Work, anyway_ and _There’s always another one, one less criminal won’t make a difference, what’s the point?_

The two halves of himself fight for control, dark against light, positive against negative, clashing, repealing, like storm clouds seething with electricity, electrons bouncing and colliding, writhing with energy. The only outlet is in lightning bolts of power, and his body is the lightning rod. 

Sherlock drags himself out of bed, knowing it can help, but not deigning to get dressed. His robe balances precariously on his shoulders, much like his mind on the edge of sanity. He knows it will pass eventually, but that doesn’t help fight the gremlins sneaking through, stabbing him directly where it hurts.

John is at the clinic today; some doctor is out with a sick child. Sherlock hopes that he can keep fighting until John comes home. He knows, even if he simultaneously doesn’t, that John would be upset if did anything in this state of mind. Sherlock knows he can’t hurt John like that, even if right now there is something telling him that John would hurt less in the long run. Waving his hands through the air, scrunching his eyes closed, and shaking his head, Sherlock attempts to swipe away the thought. _That won’t do_. 

He moves to pick up his violin, but can’t bring himself put the bow to the strings. He stands there, chin resting on the instrument, one hand on the neck, the other limply holding the bow at his side. Staring out the window, Sherlock watches the world pass. People milling about the street, cars driving by, someone tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons outside of Speedy’s. None of it matters. Deductions about their boring lives flit through his head, pouring in, nothing he can do to stop them. When he hears steps on the stairs, he turns away from the window and walks into the kitchen, pretending to work on an experiment so Mrs. Hudson won’t worry. 

His movements feel like limbs moving through gelatin, everything slowed and difficult. Just before she walks into the space with her usual “Yoohoo!”, Sherlock has set up his microscope and put his eyes over the eyepiece. There is no slide on the stage, so he doesn’t bother actually trying to focus on anything, just the appearance of being busy would do. Bringing his hands up to the knobs, he lets his fingers rest on them, not turning the dials. 

Mrs. Hudson sees him and begins to putter around the kitchen, setting up tea and nattering away. _Pointless._ “Sherlock dear, you really should try some of this tea Mrs. Turner bought. It’s quite delightful. I’m sure you’d love it. There’s no bergamot. I know how much you don’t like that.” 

Sherlock glances to his left as she places a cup by his hand. With a sigh, he looks back through the eyepiece at his empty microscope and simply states, “Busy.” 

“Alright, dear. I’ll let you be,” Mrs. Hudson responds as she putters back out the door. 

When he hears the door close and her steps on the stairs, Sherlock lets his shoulders sag forward and pushes away the microscope before laying his head down on the cool wood of the table. He closes his eyes and breathes. His mind runs through all the mechanisms of breathing and the chemical exchanges happening in the alveoli and into his bloodstream. The structure of hemoglobin and concentration of oxygen versus carbon dioxide. The pathway of blood from the lungs into the pulmonary veins through the left atrium into the left ventricle and out the aorta. He can see the passage of nutrients and oxygen through the blood to the various cells of his body. Watching the exchange over and over again, he matches it to the sound of his breath, the pound of his heart. 

It’s not until he hears footsteps on the stairs again does he realize how much time has passed. Without lifting his head, Sherlock opens his eyes and calculates it been about an hour based on the change of the shadows around him. _Must be Mrs. Hudson again._ This time, he can’t bring himself to pretend, the energy sapped from his body. _Let her see._

He feels the warmth of his breath reflected back to him from the table, his nose partially compressed. When he hears the footsteps stop behind him, he lets out a small huff. Then, a warm hand lands on his shoulder, a thumb rubbing back and forth across the nape of his neck. _That’s not Mrs. Hudson._ Tension spikes through his shoulders when Sherlock realizes it must be John. Rolling his head against the table, he chastises himself for not recognizing the footsteps earlier. He doesn’t want John to see him like this. It adds yet another dark swirl to the cloud in his head telling him he isn’t good enough, that John is better off without him, that John is having to waste his time here instead of at work. But there isn’t anything he can do about it now, so his body falls limp again, surrendering to gravity. Sherlock lets it pull him, crush him. It would be easier that way. 

“Sherlock. Hey. Look at me, please.” John’s gentle, grounding voice cuts through the mire. Still, Sherlock can’t bear to face him and again shakes his head by rolling it against the table. The hand at the back of his neck gives a small squeeze. “Mrs. Hudson called. I came as soon as I could.” _Of course I didn’t fool her._ Sherlock sighs. The change of breathing pattern catches him, and he bites his lip to prevent it from turning into a sob. _Can’t have that._ John notices it anyway. 

“Hey, Sherlock. Hey.” John wraps his hands around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him into the back of the chair. Sherlock’s chin rests on his chest, gravity too strong to fight along with all the other battles raging in his mind. A shadow falls over him, and he is suddenly wrapped in strong arms, his face pressed against a broad shoulder. “Shh. Oh, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” John continues to mutter consoling phrases as he slowly rocks them both, rubbing a hand over Sherlock’s curls repeatedly. John’s shirt starts to feel wet against Sherlock’s face, and he realizes he is crying, though he has no idea when it started. Silent tears unaccompanied by problematic breathing. Quiet. Hateful. 

The calm murmurations coming from John don’t transform into words Sherlock can comprehend. But the sentiment is there all the same. The John light in his mind palace begins to glow a little brighter, fighting against all the darkness. Because Sherlock knows that John cares. That John would be devastated without him. It’s already happened once. And now, John’s presence allows that truth to take a stronger hold in his mind than it had before. 

Pushing through the thick, heavy air, Sherlock brings his shaking arms up to wrap around John in return, hands clenching around the fabric when they finally make contact. He pulls John closer to him, and John returns the gesture, carefully dragging Sherlock out of his chair and onto the ground, wedged between John’s legs. Sherlock’s drape over one side as John clings tighter and continues to rock them, still murmuring. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock finally makes out what John is saying, singing actually. It’s a silly American song, but it brings a watery smile to Sherlock’s lips. He can feel the low rumble of the melody through John’s chest as he sings, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away."


End file.
